A mistake’s meaning rests in the hands of the teacher. It becomes an embodiment of the culture he creates. As such, it can either destroy or it can build. I choose to hold the latter in front of my kids. I choose to present challenges that offer mistake-making opportunities, opportunities to prove what we know and own what we don’t. I believe ownership is the key. We can’t improve what we don’t acknowledge. But it is hard to get kids to acknowledge, much less embrace, what they have been conditioned to fear and hide. Indeed, it is a difficult situation. But, it is not an impossible situation. Kids can learn to find value in their mistakes, to discover the potential in their missteps. But we have to teach them.

Yesterday, I presented a mistake-making opportunity. A test. An assessment. A chance to perform. A chance to fail. Tests look and feel different in the 180 classroom. With no grade attached, the pressure is off, but the “let’s-be-real” meter is in full effect. The kids have a chance to show me what they can do. They also have a chance to own what they cannot. And from there, together, we have an opportunity to do something about it. Below is just a small sample of what the opportunity looked like yesterday. I’d like to point out a few key components of the approach.

Sentence Performance Task

___Assessment taken with resources

___Assessment taken without resources

Write a Compound Sentence. Circle simple subject(s). Underline simple predicate(s).

Explain why it’s a compound sentence:

Confidence(student)  3  2  1          Performance(teacher)  3  2  1

First, the kids were given an opportunity to access resources if necessary, but if they accessed them, then they had to own it by checking the “assessment taken with resources” box. The thinking behind this is my wanting the kids to be aware of their ability to perform independently. It’s okay to access resources–we do it in the “real world” all the time, but the goal is independence. And we cannot reach independence if we are not first aware of dependence. Of course, I encouraged the kids to try it independently, and many did,  but a good number used resources. Did some check the “did not use” box disingenuously? Perhaps, but I would suggest that few did. Why would they? As I reminded them, this is not a vehicle for a grade. It is a vehicle for feedback. No short-term gratification to be achieved here. No “stolen” grade to mask a lack proficiency. Just an opportunity to own their learning. Cheaters never win.

Next, the kids not only had to show me the what, but they also had to show me the why. Yes, it is important for them to produce the desired sentence, but it is equally important for them to explain why. This is a necessary measure of understanding. I want them to do. But, ultimately, I want them to understand. If one can explain, then one understands.

Finally, the kids had to indicate their confidence level by marking 3 (confident), 2 (somewhat confident), or 1 (not confident). Then, my assessment would indicate how they performed: 3 (hit the target), 2 (near miss), or 1 (far miss). How’d they do? Well, I am only through one period, but I am pleased to announce that there were lots of mistakes, lots of learning opportunities.Oh, there was a lot of success, too, and even a few “perfects” without resources, but by and large, I learned that we still have some learning to do. Could not be happier about that. Let the learning continue.

Happy Thursday, all.

In a little over a month, my 88 sophomores will sit down to take the Smarter Balanced Assessment (SBA).  It is the most current manifestation of the “state test” that kids will have to pass in order to graduate. It began with the Washington Assessment of Student Learning (WASL),  and then it changed to the High School Proficiency Exam (HSPE). Interestingly, each–including the current test–has been touted as a valid, reliable measure of student achievement–until it wasn’t. And so, this leads me to believe that we haven’t yet “arrived” in regards to finding “the measure” of student achievement.

With the SBA’s predecessors I went all in. Oh, not because I thought that these tests were the promised panacea they claimed to be, but because they were part of my kids’ realities. And as such, my attitude, as with most things that I do, set the stage for how the kids would approach the test. I even created “cheer teams” in the form of WASL Wonders and HSPE Heroes to motivate and inspire the kids to do their best. But as time got on, my energy and enthusiasm for such things began to wane. And now, even if I wanted, I don’t think I could muster the strength, for I am no longer buying what’s being sold. I am no longer all in. Heck, I’ve not even a toe in the ring if I am honest. I am done. But it’s not that simple. And before I get too crazy with my anti-test, tough-guy talk, I have to check myself. There’s still the kids. And those in power know this. And as long as that’s a factor, they have me over a barrel. I will do what I have to do to help my kids pass, even if it means selling out.

Recently, our attention was directed to what are called “interim assessments,” practice assessments put out by the same company who makes the tests, practice assessments that teach to the test, practice assessments that take precious class time. Practice assessments that if I do not put my kids in front of, then I am guilty of not putting them in front of the practice, which may or may not help them pass. And thus the barrel; it is especially the barrel when such things are presented as, “It’s your professional responsibility to give these practice tests. Well, when it’s put that way, then I guess I have to do it, else I am not a professional. I am neglecting my kids. I am hurting their chances on the test. Of course, we are not being required to give them, but we are being reminded of our professional responsibility. Barrel.

And so, a dilemma. It vexes me that I have to put so much time and energy into something that will likely “expire” once the new, more valid and more reliable measure presents itself. It vexes me that even yesterday, my conferences with kids ended up steering us to how they will perform on the upcoming test. It vexes me that I have to sell what I would not buy. It vexes me that I will have to be disingenuous with my kids, as I put on my rah-rah hat and pick up my pom-poms, checking my attitude at the door, putting on a happy face for something in which I find little value. But I will. For my students. But not for my own child. My seventh-grade son Finn will not be taking the SBA this spring. We are opting him out. Opting out because we can. Not sure what we will do in  high school, when it “counts,” but for now, we will choose not to participate in this mad era of standardized testing.

Happy Wednesday, all.

This caught my eye this morning. Made me think of my quest to cultivate a culture of possibility. As I am wont to say, often the only difference between possible and impossible is a teacher’s decision.  And more often than not, those decisions involve our perceptions. Of course there are things out of are control, and there always will be. We cannot change a kid’s home situation. But we cannot let what we cannot control outside our room control what goes on inside our room. We have a choice. In everything a choice. We can feed apathy. Or we can feed hope. The latter presents possibility. The former, made manifest in the list above, presents excuses that shred the sails before they ever catch wind, stranding us in a sea of impossible, listing without purpose, existing without hope.

As captains of our ships, we chart the course. We hoist the sails. Let’s just make sure that when we do, they can catch the wind, hold the force that our kids can be. Can be. If we let them be. Think possible. And it will be.

Happy Tuesday, all. May your sails catch a favorable wind.

Yep. This is what I want for my kids. And while I cannot claim that my classroom is ideal for every kid who walks through the door, I can claim that I make a concerted effort to make it so. Of course, that is no small task, for each kid is different, and meeting his or her needs is a unique challenge. As such, it is perhaps an impossible mission, but if one stays the course, making an honest effort towards his goal, then even his failure is his success because he tried.

At present, I am trying to move the needle with public speaking. I am trying to provide opportunities for kids to face their fears and become less uncomfortable. Of course, I began this back on day one. It started the moment they walked through my door 116 days ago. It started with my first interaction with them. It started with their first interactions with each other. From day one, we began creating the culture in which we would live for the coming months. And it is now within that culture–a mix of intention and chance–that we find ourselves finding the courage to face that which we fear. Of course, I want to believe that the comfort the kids find in our culture has made this task a little less daunting. I want to believe that if asked, my kids would say that feel comfortable in my room. Comfortable to be themselves. Comfortable to struggle. Comfortable to accept a challenge. Comfortable to ask for help. Comfortable to be uncomfortable. If this is even mostly true, then I am comfortable. But because it will never be fully true, I will never be fully comfortable,  and, thus, I will continue to chase what I desire.  A room for all. A place for each.

Happy Monday, all.

Yesterday, we began facing our fears. Apparently, nearly 75% of the world’s population suffers from the fear of public speaking, but the kids’ and I didn’t need statistics to back up what we already knew to be true. Kids, people, rarely embrace the opportunity to stand and deliver to their peers. In fact, they generally hate it.  And yesterday, the kids reminded me of that.

Of course, I didn’t need much of a reminder, for even though it has now been nearly thirty years ago, I remember all too clearly–and painfully–the “F” I took on a speech in 11th grade because I was too afraid–really, just unprepared–to stand in front of the class. Mrs. Amsden was terribly disappointed in me. Heck, I was–still am–disappointed in myself. But the fear was real. So, I do not dismiss it out of hand when my kids share their fear and reluctance to speak publicly. But, I do not let them get out of it either. It’s important. And it’s one of those things that one cannot simply get better at without doing. So we do it, but we do it differently.

Last year, upon posing the question, “Why are people so afraid to speak?” I had a huge Aha! moment when Danica broke it down for me.

“Here’s the deal, Sy. You guys give us one or two major presentations/speeches per year; you make it worth a gazillion points; you give us a rubric that requires a Ted-Talk level of performance; and you don’t give us any real support. You just expect perfection. And then you wonder why we generally suck, and why we generally hate it.”

Ouch. Knife in. Couple a twists. That one hurt. But it hurt because it was true. And at that moment, I vowed to never again “score” a kids public-speaking performance. Oh, I would certainly give feedback, but I would not penalize them with a grade for facing their fears, for trying to grow. More importantly, I vowed to give them lots of opportunities to practice with feedback, so they were less-anxious during the real performance. Consequently, as some will remember from last spring, I had the pleasure of witnessing many great speech performances, many of which I shared with you. And so, this year, I am taking a very similar approach, hoping my kids grow in this important area by diminishing their own anxiety with speaking publicly.

And so, yesterday, the kids had their first of many to-come opportunities of standing and delivering in front of the class. They had to prepare 5 statements that revealed some of their beliefs, values, convictions, and/or ideals. Killing two birds, I had them produce a simple sentence, a compound sentence, a complex sentence, a figure of speech, and a threepeat. They had to publish each statement in marker on printer paper. Then they had to select one of two options for presenting: share without speaking, or share with speaking. In addition, as they took the stage, they had to share their anxiety level by indicating  a number with their fingers. 1 = low/no anxiety. 2 = moderate anxiety. 3 = high anxiety.  And we got to work. We got about halfway through the roster, and today we will wrap it up. No Ted Talks. But the kids got up and they delivered. Baby steps. Fear is not overcome at once. It takes time, and it takes some trust. I have some trust building to do in this particular arena. Thankfully, last year, Danica helped show me the way.

Happy Friday, all. Have a great weekend.

“Project Feed Forward is an investment in tomorrow. One kind act a time. One kid at a time. Feeding kids. Building character. Investing in the future.”

What began simply as an idea to provide some snacks when I could for kids who were hungry has grown into a project to not only fill kids’ bellies but also build their characters. Each day, dozens of kids access my cabinet to get Cup Noodles or granola bars. The cost? Please and thank you. As the project has grown, it has surpassed my capacity to keep my cabinet stocked. Fortunately, many from the Cheney community have stepped up and helped keep the project going with their generous donations. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Recently, former CHS student Alexa Shaw, who is now a senior psych major at EWU, contacted me to get involved with the project, expressing that she and some of her peers wanted to participate in a community-service project, and my project was right up their alley. Of course, I eagerly welcomed her participation. The project is bigger than I. Way bigger.

Last week, I was also thrilled to learn that community-involvement hero Jessica Deutsch had floated my project idea to STCU, who may be able to help. Still waiting to hear back on this. Either way, I am humbled and inspired by the community work and support people like Jessica and organizations like STCU provide.

What does this have to do with 180? Well, if one can accept that notion that the purpose of education transcends academics, then he/she understands that education is also about preparing kids to be contributing, productive members of society. This spring, after the standardized-testing saga is over, the kids are going to come up with their own “make-a-difference” projects, projects that will impact the local, national, and/or global community. As with the academic side of things in the classroom, one of the most important roles I can play is model. And just as I model writing for my kids, I model that each can strive to make a difference. So, I share my models, my projects.

Project Feed Forward is one of three projects that I have going right now. I also have Project You Matter and, of course, Project 180 in play. All three projects began with my seeing something that I wanted to change, so instead of just thinking about it, I went for it. I want to use my projects to empower the kids to do the same. At the risk of being cliche’, I want them to see the need for a change, and I want them to be the change. No, nothing to do with language arts necessarily, but a lot to do with finding a place, a purpose. If my kids leave me with that, then I will feel like I have made a difference.

Happy Wednesday, all.

https://medium.com/@hhschiaravalli/how-one-weird-finding-changed-my-perspective-on-grades-914f0ea480a9#.43glsff0v

Been on a feedback kick lately. As I look back over my years of grading student work–grades without comments, grades with comments, and comments without grades, it is the latter which sits best with me. It is the approach that feels most right, and apparently there is some evidence to back it up (see article). Grades get in the way of learning. They perpetuate a culture of transaction, where the grade, not the learning, becomes the goal.  In the past,  before 180 and some of my other efforts to do learning differently, I would witness time and again–to my utter disappointment–kids skipping over my comments just to find the grade. If they saw an A, “He loves me.” If they saw anything less, “He loves me not.” And despite my efforts to steer them to the growth-encouraging comments, they could not see beyond the alphabetical symbol that said everything and nothing at once.

But now, with 180, I have experienced a shift in how my kids receive and perceive feedback. No grades to distract and detract. Only comments, comments packaged in one of two ways: things to think about, and things to celebrate. And while I cannot speak precisely to what my kids feel when they get my feedback, I want to believe that either package communicates the same thing: “He loves me.” No winners. No losers. Just honest conversations about where each is in his learning. And I want to imagine that in those shared moments of our learning discussions, they hear me because they trust me. But that trust does not happen over night, nor does it happen by accident. To be sure, it takes lots of time and lots of intention. Of course, for some kids it takes even more time and more intention, and for some it won’t matter how much time and effort I spend, they still won’t fully trust me, won’t fully hear me. But it is not due to a lack of trying on my part. I can’t control everything. But I can control how I interact with my kids. I can control how I treat them.  And I believe how I treat them is how they will trust me.  Consequently, I believe many do trust me.  And I am proud of that, for it took no fancy, pre-packaged, evidence-based approach; it simply took interacting with my kids: meeting each where she is, treating each as if she matters. Nothing fancy. A simple approach that costs only time and effort. An approach that is available to all. Always has been. Always will be.

Happy Tuesday, all.